Post
by also known as LuLu
Summary: He was the favorite writer of all of them; he could hear the right words even when they weren't said.


Disclaimer: Just taking them out of the Disney playpen for a romp in the yard. I fully plan on putting them back when I'm done.  
  
Author's Notes: I just somehow sat down and wrote this in one sitting. I don't know why I wrote it; it just happened, and it ended up completely different than my original plan. I tried writing the accent again, which may or may not have worked, but ah well. Any kind of feedback is very much appreciated. (Also, for the curious, I gave up on italics. I can't get them to work no matter what I use. Ah well.)  
  
Post  
  
He had never learned how to write properly, but that never stopped him from sending letters. There was a younger boy, though not too much younger, kicked out of his house and expelled from boarding school, and he wrote for him. It took some convincing, so to speak, but ever since then, whenever he was needed, he was there.  
  
"Everybody out!" Jack bellowed one late, dreary afternoon. "'Cept you," he added, nodding at the boy.  
  
"Aw, c'mon!" one of the other boys protested, "it's rainin' out!"  
  
"Find yerself somethin' ta do," he commanded.  
  
"Ya gotta dictate taday?" another boy complained. "What's such a big deal?"  
  
"Newsie business, 'course. I'se tryin' ta make all our lives bettah. An' if ya got yer lazy bums outta heah long enough so I could write it, it'd happen fastah!"  
  
"All right, all right!" one grumbled, grabbing a hat before heading for the door with a flock of grumpy newsies. "Mebbe dere'll be some horses still runnin'…"  
  
When the bunkroom had emptied, the boy looked at Jack curiously. He tossed the boy a pencil.   
  
"Got papah?" he asked.  
  
The boy nodded and slipped a crinkled, beige piece from underneath his pillow. He settled himself onto the bunkroom floor so he would have a hard surface to write on.  
  
"What's the subject taday, Jack?" he asked, looking up at his leader, who was beginning to place.  
  
"Start it off the usual: Ta Spot. Yeah, dat sounds good. Y'got dat down?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Okay, next: Greetin's from the Lowah East Side. I'se writin' 'cause some of yer 'little boids', as ya call 'em, have been makin' deir nests too close to some already taken --" He ceased movement for a moment. "Dat sound like a good woid to ya?"  
  
"How about 'occupied'?"  
  
"Whassat mean?"  
  
"Same thing. Just sounds nicah."  
  
"Shoah, go for it." He began his walk back and forth across the bunkroom again. When the boy looked up every so often after that, he could see his leader's scuffed shoes and dirty trouser cuffs. "So, too close to some already ob-li-gay-ted sellin' spots. If ya want yer boys ta be branchin' out, try ta make sure dey'se goin' in the right direction. I heah -- name a borough, kid --"  
  
"Uh…Bottle Alley?"  
  
"I heah Bottle Alley's had a shortage of woikin' boys as of late. Try 'em out dere. If you'se got a problem wit dis, send somethin' back. With regards --" He used that because he had heard a rich man use it once. "--Jack Kelly."   
  
"…Jack Kelly," the boy finished, setting down his pencil. "Want me ta read it back?"   
  
"Yeah."  
  
He read it back word-for-word. "Sound good, Jack?"  
  
"Poifect."  
  
"I'll send it out tanight?"  
  
"Yeah, dat's great. Thanks a lot fer writin' fer me. Yer the best of all of 'em."  
  
"Any time, Jack." Because he knew anything else was not an option.  
  
"I'll tell the othah boys dey can come back in now." Jack turned on his heel and headed straight out of the bunkroom. The boy folded the letter over once, twice, three times, and slipped it under his pillow until it was time to be dispatched.  
  
Dear Spot,  
  
I wonder, sometimes, how I remember to breathe when I think about you. When I consider the sunlight in your hair, the water's reflection in your eyes, your incredibly incomparable beauty, I feel weak. If I could find a way to perfectly describe the every perfect line on your face, or the way your skin seems to radiate light on the darkest of days, I would still be unworthy of you.  
  
Knowing that I am seeing you makes the long journey across the bridge seem only a few short steps. But it has been too long since we have been able to meet. In some ways, I miss the strike, because even though the times were hard, being able to stand next to you eased any pain I felt. The pain is back now, though, and in full force. Every part of me aches for you, wishing that there were a way to get to you, and knowing that with the way things are now it is unachievable makes even writing this letter hard to do.   
  
I would find a way to walk on water for you, if that could get me even a single moment closer to catching a glimpse of your face.  
  
I know these are a fool's words, that all of this is an impossibility. But still, I can't help but hope that maybe someday you will wake up and see me next to you, and you'll realize that, as the dawn touches my skin and your eyes devour my image, you love me, even if it is only in part. If you loved me with even a sliver of the way I love you, all of this will have been worth it.  
  
With love,  
  
Jack  
  
Kid Blink was a very good stenographer indeed. 


End file.
